


let's take that road before us

by lyricalprose (fairylights)



Series: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 2013 Fic Advent Calendar, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairylights/pseuds/lyricalprose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“New new new Doctor,” he offers, tentatively trying for cheerful, and Rose gifts him with a watery smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's take that road before us

**Author's Note:**

> ze-gabz asked “Rose and Tentoo celebrate their first Christmas together, bringing memories of Ten's first days back.”
> 
> Fill #2 for my 2013 fic advent calendar.

It takes over five and a half hours to get back to London from Norway.  
  
It takes half an hour to trudge up off the beach to higher ground, and it’s another hour’s wait until a Torchwood helicopter comes to fetch them to the zeppelin port in Bergen. The icy wind whipping across the overlook stings his newly fragile skin, and not even the distraction of attempting to determine the precise wind-chill factor really helps to make the wait any less uncomfortable.  
  
When they do finally make it to Bergen and onto the zeppelin, the Doctor is immediately reminded that for all their showiness and novelty, zeppelins aren’t nearly as fast as planes. The trip seems interminable in a way no other journey he’s ever taken has – and that includes the time he took a four-day trip through the Andorian wastes on the back of a giant desert tortoise. When he isn’t checking to make _absolutely_ sure that there are no vortisaurs anywhere on board, he spends the majority of the four-hour trip fidgeting in his seat and desperately willing Rose to say something, _anything._  
  
She doesn’t, except for inane things like _I’m knackered_ and _watch your head_ and _the loo’s just down that way_.  
  
(She does, however, hold his hand).  
  
When he finally steps out of the zeppelin and onto the tarmac in London, it’s half-one and snowing.  
  
Pete is waiting for them, standing in front of a town car parked on the tarmac, and Jackie practically leaps from the debarking staircase to get to him as quickly as possible. Rose trails behind her mother, gently leading him by the hand she hasn’t let go of for hours, and the Doctor feels a bit numb in a way that’s got nothing to do with the cold.  
  
“Snow!” he says brightly, into the silence of the car interior, once they’ve all piled in and the driver’s started off to wherever it is they’re headed. It sounds far more cheerful than he feels. “That’s brilliant, that is. When are we, then?”  
  
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Rose says quietly, without turning her head, and for what seems like the thousandth time since the TARDIS faded from view, the Doctor finds himself momentarily transfixed by her profile – by the way that the glow of the London night casts her face in odd colors, the way that the warmth of her breath creates a patch of fog on the car window as she speaks.  
  
Seconds pass, and Rose still doesn’t look at him. “Of course it is,” he mutters, and settles back into the cold leather seat.  
  
—-  
  
He sleeps for twelve hours, once they get back to the Tyler estate.  
  
It’s the longest he’s slept since the last time he regenerated. He wakes up alone, feeling groggy and cotton-headed, in a guest bedroom that he vaguely recalls being shown to by Rose sometime last night. He’d been so incredibly _tired_ – and ugh, how _human_ that is, that’s going to be rubbish – that he’d not even tried to decipher the tight-lipped smile she’d given him before leaving, instead falling to the bed in a heap of exhausted limbs.  
  
The house seems fairly quiet, when he ventures out into it to try and find Rose. A maid tidying up in the hallway points him in the direction of the kitchen.  
  
Sure enough, Rose is there. She’s perched on one of the polished marble countertops, elbows on her knees and head in her hands, and she’s crying.  
  
The Doctor is in front of her in an instant – standing between her legs and bringing his hands up to stroke her arms before he’s even taken a moment to wonder if it’s a gesture that she’ll welcome.  
  
“Hey, hey,” he says softly, rubbing his thumbs over the sleeves of her jumper – something dark red and cashmere, an expensive-looking thing that’s nothing like the sort of thing he remembers Rose wearing. “What is it?”  
  
Rose’s eyes flick up to meet his, and they’re misty and just a bit sharp. “What _isn’t_ it?” she mumbles, sounding positively miserable.  
  
His single heart clenches unpleasantly inside his chest, and for a beat he’s at a loss for what to say. His gob takes over for him in lieu of his brain, awkwardly stammering out stilted half-sentences. “Rose, I know this isn’t – I know I’m not what you–”  
  
“It’s not you,” she says quickly, voice hoarse and rough from crying. “Or, well – it is, a bit. It’s like–” Rose trails off and shakes her head. “You’re here, but you’re _not_ here, too. And you’re a new man all over again, just like last time, except for how it’s not like last time at all.”  
  
“New new new Doctor,” he offers, tentatively trying for cheerful, and Rose gifts him with a watery smile.  
  
“I just,” she sniffles a bit, wiping at her eyes with one slightly-too-long sleeve before continuing. “I just can’t help feelin’ like we’ve done all this before. Christmas, an’ a new you, an’ me crying in Mum’s kitchen.”  
  
“We do seem to be establishing a pattern, yes.” He pauses, and takes his hands from Rose’s arms, bringing them up to cup her face. “Maybe we’ll be better at it, this time. We’ve had practice.”  
  
She smiles again. It’s a fragile, hopeful thing, and he doesn’t kiss it from her face, even though he thinks about it. He _does_ wipe at the tear-tracks on her face until her cheeks are dry. He does pull her into his chest, does wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her neck, does mumble _I love you_ into her hair.  
  
(And he _does_ kiss her, later that night – after Christmas dinner, outside in the snow, when she’s laughing at his blue paper crown).


End file.
